


you gave away what you never really had, and now your purse is empty, I can see why you're sad

by houselannister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Implied Sansa/Brienne, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 11:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18570505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houselannister/pseuds/houselannister
Summary: It's been five years since Jaime left London. Now Tywin is dead, and business is business. Cersei flies to Paris to get what's hers.





	you gave away what you never really had, and now your purse is empty, I can see why you're sad

**Author's Note:**

> I had just started this fic when the news of Notre Dame de Paris burning reached me. I was conflicted, I thought perhaps I should change the setting of the story. But then I realized, Paris will survive, and decided there could be no better metaphor: it doesn't matter how tall the flames, if something is solid it will withstand.
> 
> As per usual, thank you Ashley for being my third eye.

She waits, sitting outside a small café down Canal St. Martin, wearing a pale pink blouse and a tan tight skirt just above the knee; a young server puts her café au lait down on the table, she gives him five euros and tells him to keep the change. It’s sunny, the sidewalks are filled with tourists going about their business; the still water of the canal gleams in the sunlight. There’s a single orange tulip in the white ceramic vase. Her fingers tighten around the handle of her leather Hermes shopper; then she takes off her sunglasses. The green of her eyes is crystal clear as she looks around, scanning the crowd, then her wristwatch. A sigh, the nervous tapping of her fingernails against her café au lait. The unmistakable sign of a long wait. She takes a sip, grimaces as something is not to her liking. She tries a little sugar, takes one more sip, then another: _better_.

“I was expecting someone much shorter.”

He blocks the sun, and she is forced to look up. It’s brief, something crosses her features then she returns to her cup, feigning indifference. “Let’s make it quick, shall we?” she says, pointing at the other chair. He hesitates, like this was not what he was expecting. And then he nods to himself, like he could not have expected _anything_ else.

The man is tall, handsome on a first look. His hair is beaten gold, his eyes emerald green. His shoulders lean, hidden by a casual leather jacket on a white clean shirt tucked inside a pair of washed out jeans. It’s odd, they couldn’t be more different, yet they look like spitting images of each other.

“I’ve brought the papers,” she begins, opening the clasp of her leather bag and pulling out a stack of business-looking files and a black pen. “All you have to do is sign here,” she points at the end of the page, “and here,” she points at another, “and-”

“Cersei.”

Cersei stops talking. Now she seems annoyed, as she presses into the back of the chair, looking elsewhere. It’s a conversation she doesn’t want to have. He watches her closely, comfortable in the silence. His eyes trail down her profile, to the tip of her nose; the blonde strands tucked behind her ear; the golden pink earring hanging heavy from her lobe; the collar of her blouse, the top button she has purposefully popped open.

He tries again. “I meant it, you know? I thought Tyrion would make the trip.”

“He meant to,” she replies, her eyes fixated on the glistening surface of the canal. When she turns around she’s smirking.

“Then why are _you_ here?”

“You’re transferring the company to _me_ ,” she clarifies. “I don’t see why Tyrion should have any part of this transaction.”

“So, you threatened our brother?”

“I persuaded him.”

“You must have had a strong argument.”

“I always do.” The tone in her voice is final. She hands him the pen, “Sign it. I have a flight leaving soon.” She stands up, straightens her skirt and puts on her sunglasses. “I’m going to the restroom, keep an eye on the bag please.”

She squeezes in between two tables and enters the café. A waiter points her towards the bathroom, and she heads in that direction. Once inside, she locks the door and turns to the sink. Her reflection taunts her, _you idiot_ , _you should not have come here_. She washes her hands, she curses her make up because nothing would feel better than splashing cold water on her forehead. Her temples are pulsing. She closes her eyes, briefly, takes in a deep breath. Exhales. A minute passes by, two, three. It’s been long enough, she can return to the table now. It’s almost over. One last goodbye.

When she returns, he is exactly where she’s left him. She looks down, “Where are the papers?”

“In my briefcase,” he says, holding up a briefcase she had not noticed before. “I have decided I need a little time before I sign my entire company over to you.”

“Father’s company,” she snarls through gritted teeth. “You never wanted it, Jaime.”

“But Father’s dead now.” Jaime smiles. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.” He stands up, offers her a half-assed two-fingers salute. “I’ll call you.” Then he turns around and starts walking away.

“Fuck’s sake,” Cersei mutters under her breath, gathering her things and trailing in his footsteps. “Where do you think you’re going?” In her heels, she looks funny trying to keep up with his stride. “What part of _I have a flight leaving soon_ did your brain not register?”

“How does that concern me?” he stops in his tracks, turns to face her. “You can go, I’ll… email this to you, or something.” His face is smug, begging for a good slap. And Cersei is just itching to comply. “Unless you want to stay, then be my guest.” He starts walking off again.

Cersei doesn’t move, her fists are clenched at her sides. She looks around, she’s torn. Jaime is quite a few feet away now, she’s almost lost him in the flux of tourists passing her by. “Fuck,” she curses, stalking in his direction. “Fuck,” a little louder. “Wait!”

* * *

 

“Where are we going?” she asks, unenthused. They’ve been walking for about half an hour, keeping some distance between them: he walked ahead, she followed. Now and then he’s looked back, caught her glaring only to look away as soon as their eyes met. She has not initiated conversation ever since they left the café. Until now.

“My office,” he replies, stopping at a small two-story building. He eyes her once more before stepping in. He holds the door for her, but she remains on the doorstep, arms crossed. “You’re thinking about getting on that plane, aren’t you?” he asks with a smile.

“I’m thinking about how much I hate you right now,” she replies, striding past him.

Jaime shuts the door behind him. It’s a small room, with doors on both sides, and a flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. “Upstairs,” he offers, letting her walk ahead of him, but first he quickly opens one of the doors and peaks in. “Madame Geraldine, it’s me,” he warns, loudly. An old female voice yells something in French and Jaime closes the door with a smirk. Cersei is already halfway up the stairs but she turns around. “Landlady,” he explains, following her, “She doesn’t like us much, says we _walk loudly_.” As they proceed up the stairs, he watches her feet, her ankles, her calves. _Not higher, higher is forbidden._

The upper landing is much brighter than downstairs. There’s plants on each side of the only door. A golden plaque reads: Lannister & Tarth Privé. Cersei scoffs. “Who’s Tarth? Your lackey?” she asks, with a mocking grin.

“My partner.”

The smile on Cersei’s face is frozen. They stare at each other, and the curve of her lips slowly turns to a thin straight line. He’s hurt her, but she deserves it. She’s making this way more difficult than it should be. Jaime knocks a few times, tapping a recognizable rhythm, then he pushes the door open.

“It’s me,” he calls out. “I’m not alone.”

Cersei steps carefully into the small apartment. It’s a big open space: a waiting area with couches and magazines to kill the time, a couple desks further into the spacious room, abstract art on the walls and design objects. It’s luminous, with tall windows to allow the sunlight in. She’s suspiciously silent, Jaime knows he’s cornered her, she couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. It’s the shock, he’d wager.

“Coming!” a woman’s voice over water running.

Jaime watches Cersei intently. This time she doesn’t shrink away from his gaze. Her green eyes are on fire, she’s furious: he looks at him and he knows what she means, _how could you do this to me_ , but Jaime is angry too, just as angry as Cersei.

The only door in the apartment opens to reveal a surprising woman. Short blond hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders: she’s the tallest woman Cersei has ever seen. She was the tallest woman Jaime had ever seen the first time he’d met her, as well. Her face lights up when she sees Cersei. “Bonjour!” She draws closer. “You didn’t say you were bringing someone!” Brienne stretches out her hand, which Cersei doesn’t take. It’s an awkward exchange, but Brienne doesn’t give up. She turns to Jaime: “Is this the mysterious date you wouldn’t tell me about?”

Cersei eyes the door, Jaime notices it.

“Kind of. This is my sister, Cersei.”

Brienne’s mouth falls agape. “Oh, I see it! Oh yes, you do look frighteningly alike.” Cersei has yet to utter a word and is currently regarding Brienne as not much more than an inconvenience. Brienne’s smile is forcefully stretched out. Jaime wants to laugh: if he weren’t having so much fun, he would tell her to stop trying so hard, that it’s useless anyway, her good-natured charms won’t work on Cersei.

“Well, anyway… I was heading out, Sansa’s picking me up for lunch break. Unless you want to join-” Jaime shakes his head no before she can finish the sentence. “Alright.” She kisses Jaime’s cheek on her way out. “It was… nice. To meet you. I guess.” she tells Cersei, awkwardly. Cersei is a statue of contempt. Jaime knows the moment Brienne walks out that door he’s going to get an earful.

But it doesn’t happen. The door slams shut behind Brienne, and Cersei doesn’t speak. Jaime doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence, he figures this is a luxury he should relinquish to her. After all, she’s the cornered beast of this exchange, she’s the one whose mind must be racing with possibilities, each worse than the other.

When she speaks, at last, her voice is stern. “You know what, why don’t you e-mail me the papers when you’re done? Just don’t take forever.” She turns around, heads to the door without a second glance. Jaime should stop her, he knows, but he doesn’t, and before he realizes, she’s gone.

* * *

 

Cersei is practically running down the stairs, her hand barely grazing the banister. Her mind is a whirlpool, and she’s going down, sucked into muddy waters of her own making. She doesn’t even register the old lady yelling at her to be quiet. She bursts out, and lets the warm spring breeze caress her. She’s hardly aware of her surroundings, her brain recognizes something in the distance. The tall blonde walking hand in hand with a shorter redhead. She recognizes the spark between them: she felt it, once.

She can breathe, she realizes only now her lungs were stone just seconds ago. Relief washes over her, and she wants to laugh at herself.

“So…” A familiar voice from above. Cersei looks up, sees Jaime watching her from the window just above her, irritatingly amused. “Shall I make coffee or…?”

For the first time she wants to laugh, but she doesn’t. It’s a dangerous path, to let down her guard. She might forget how much he’s hurt her. She might forgive him. Even worse, she might _feel_ something. “I’m starving. Fix some lunch.”

Jaime smiles, and Cersei thinks it’s the most beautiful he’s looked his whole life.

* * *

 

There’s a small kitchen in Jaime’s office. It’s barely enough to cook a decent meal.

They eat in silence, mostly, at one of the desks: the ice has not yet melted between them, but now and then he’s asked a bit about home and she has responded. He has asked about their father’s funeral, about their brother, even about her children. That was the only question she’d refused to answer, and that was also when some of the discomfort had settled back in.

He knows at some point they will have to talk about what happened.

“Have you made up your mind yet?” she asks as soon as they’re done eating. His briefcase lies, forgotten, on the couch at the entrance, along with his leather jacket and Cersei’s bag.

“You’re relentless.”

“You know I am.”

He pours some white wine in her glass. “How did you convince him?”

“Convince who?”

“Father. To give you the company.”

Cersei laughs. “He was dying, and ultimately it boiled down to either Tyrion or me. And you know how easy a battle that is.” There’s a hint of satisfaction in Cersei’s voice, which Jaime has always hated when it came to Tyrion. His sister has always had a sense of superiority, only heightened by their father playing favourites. Of course, it was Jaime who always won that game.

Cersei continues, “He didn’t necessarily like it, you know how he is. But after you-” She halts suddenly, looks down.

Ah, there it is.

“Are we going to talk about this?”

“No.” Dry, stern, unquestionable. Cersei is quickly on her feet. “Enough of this, Jaime. Just sign the fucking papers.”

“Not now.” _Two can play this game_ , he thinks. He knows he’s risking it all, now. One misstep could send her flying home before he has time to stop her. His sister is volatile, capricious and stubborn, but she doesn’t like lost causes. He needs to give her something to hang on to. “Give me until tonight. I have something to do this afternoon, a work thing. Then I’ll sign your bloody documents.” She’s growing tired, before she can complain he gets on his feet and draws in until he’s standing bare inches from her; he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and she tenses up. “I promise.”

She has not changed her perfume, he recognizes it immediately. He is seized by the urge to touch her, even just to remember what her skin feels like. At times he fears to forget her. The first few nights away he would close his eyes and exercise his memory: he’d summon her face, the sound of her voice, the smell of her sweat, the colour of her hair, the curve of her spine. Over and over again, terrified that time would erode his recollections. He would try and etch those memories into his brain. Now, he has her standing inches away from him and it’s all so clear, memories he should not have: her legs wrapped around him, her nails on his back, her whispering in his ear.

His mind threatens to abandon him now, when she stands so close and he would only have to reach out to have her. God, he would love to feel the inside of her once more

“Can I come?”

Jaime’s startled by the request. “What?”

“Can I come? With you? You said there’s something you have to do in the afternoon.”

“It will be boring.”

“I don’t care.”

* * *

 

A stake-out. A suspicious wife, an absent husband, an underage mistress, a wealthy family and a big inheritance. Jaime’s new car is meant for undercover operations; which is another way to say it’s dirty and ordinary. He has parked outside a nice villa in the French countryside, then joined her in the backseat. He has set up a camera, and snapped a few pictures when a young girl popped up. But it’s been at least two hours since something interesting happened, and Cersei is getting impatient.

“You were right, this _is_ boring.”

Jaime’s drinking soda, which she has already commented on. There’s no line, so she can’t use her phone. They’re lost in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do but talk to each other. A nightmare for someone who’s doing everything in her power to avoid them talking to each other.

“He’s got stamina, I’ll give you that,” Jaime says, looking at a particular window of the villa. “How long’s it been?”

“Two hours,” Cersei says. “And counting.” She has taken off her shoes and stretched out her legs in between the two front seats. She’s seen Jaime’s eyes wander a couple times, she thinks it’s still flattering.

Back in his office, that was close. She has felt his eyes burn holes in her skin, felt his breath on her. And she almost caved, felt it bubbling up inside her, almost to the point of throwing caution to the wind. It’s how it’s always been between them. It’s the urgency, the incontrollable need, it’s what nearly destroyed them.

The sun has begun its descent behind the trees on the horizon, casting long shadows down the pebbled road in front of the villa. Outside, some of the warmth has waned. Without asking his permission she grabs his jacket from the driver’s seat and puts it on her shoulder.

“Aaand… there she comes,” Jaime announces in a low voice. He picks up the camera and snaps a few more shots as the same young girl leaves the villa with a satisfied look, her phone pressed to her ear and a giggle on his lips. “It’s the third time in a week.”

“How is this interesting, anyway?”

“Because my client’s husband is 87 years old.”

Cersei’s eyes widen as Jaime smiles to himself: perhaps he should have led with that. The girl jumps on her bike and pedals away. Cersei yawns, stretches her back and arms. Jaime scrolls down the pictures he’s just taken, zooming in and out to make out some of the details. He’s talking to himself, Cersei is not listening. She only notices when he goes silent all of a sudden. She turns to him.

He’s on her before she has any time to react, pressing his lips to hers. He pulls her into him, one hand guiding her waist, another pulling her at the neck. She tries to keep in control of her body and its reactions: this is where she should push him back, slap him, reject him or yell at him. Instead she is completely still and slowly, instead of pulling away, she presses herself into him. Her hands find her way to familiar places: the base of his neck, the back of his head, his chest, his back, she pulls at him. His tongue tastes just the same, and a moan escapes her.

She’s just about ready to give in when Jaime pulls away. He’s flustered for a brief second, but it takes little to recover his usual smirk. “Sorry,” he says in a low voice. With his head he motions to the gate of the villa. “He was watching.” Cersei looks over to see an old man strolling down the garden of the villa, hanging on his maid’s arm.

Cersei licks her lips, she feels the annoying warmth rise up to her cheeks. It’s hot, in the car. “Yeah,” she breathes. “It’s… Next time, just tell me to duck. Or something.” But that ship has sailed, the wall has fallen, her own body has betrayed her. Now he knows more than he should, he knows that she’s still a prey. That she still wants it.

“Come on,” he starts, exiting the car only to go back to the driver’s seat. He starts the engine, turns to Cersei who’s still in the back. “I haven’t shown you my apartment.” There’s a glint in his eyes. She knows it. She’s known it all her life.

Breathless, she nods.

* * *

 

It’s another hour and a half to get to Jaime’s apartment, most of which they spend in traffic. The tension in the car has switched. Cersei hasn’t spoken at all since the kiss, and Jaime feels extremely tense. The truth is he enjoyed the look on her face. Of course it wasn’t planned, he had decided to not give in. But then he saw the man, and among the thousands of options that popped up in his mind, kissing her was the most appealing. Of course he _chose_ to kiss her, he can’t deny it. He had thought she’d pull away, or be angry with him in any possible way. But instead she fell silent, confusion plastered all over her face. And _need_. God, that face, he could read she was about to cave in.

He’s uncertain, devoured by what he’s feeling and torn by the knowledge he shouldn’t feel it. It’s been so long, he’s been clean for five years now. Never a relapse. Not seeing her, it was the best medicine, he thought he was free of her. But it’s been barely seven hours and he knows he’s lost his way. Every one of his senses is overcome with her presence in the backseat, terribly aware of her unsteady breathing. What is she thinking? He’s intercepted her stare once, in his rear view mirror, but she’s looked away immediately. It’s been a long ride, and he couldn’t be happier when he pulls into the underground garage.

The building he lives in is very different from his small office near Place de la Bastille. They ride the elevator all the way to the penthouse of a five-story building not that far away from the Luxemburg Garden. They stand on opposite corners of the elevator. The only noise is the jingling of his keys in his hands as he nervously tosses them from one hand to the other and again. A loud beep, the elevator doors slide open. There’s only one door for the whole landing. He pushes the key into the hole and lets them in. With a flicker of his finger, he switches the light on. The hardwood floors welcome them back into the house, along with the warm led lights and tall glass wall that overlooks what remains of Notre Dame de Paris. The walls are immaculate, with dark mahogany furniture all over the place. It was his mother’s home away from home in Paris, so he can’t get the credit for it either.

“There’s a bathroom down the corridor, last door on the left,” he explains.

“I know,” she says. It’s the first she’s said in the last hour and a half. “I’ve been here.”

“Right. Sorry.”

They’re nervous, both of them. They’re standing on a precipice, looking down. The silence drags on for a few seconds, as they just stand there, in the large living room where Joanna’s ghost still roams. It’s just the two of them now, and the memory of the days spent here when they were still a family. When they were still brother and sister.

“Listen, it’s going to be hard to find a flight tonight,” he starts. “Why don’t you just spend the night? You can leave in the morning. There’s a guest room,” he adds before she has time to object.

“I haven’t packed for that,” Cersei is looking for an excuse to get out of this situation, it’s clear as day.

“Come with me,” he says.

* * *

 

The closet he’s showing her is filled with their mother’s old stuff. Cersei realizes her father must not have had the strength to throw or give it away, and must have used this apartment as a sort of storage unit. She understands now, also, this is probably why Tywin was so opposed to the idea of Jaime moving in, even from his deathbed. He was afraid his secret might get out, that his children might see his weakness.

“I can’t wear mom’s clothes,” she says, shaking her head.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s _mom’s_ clothes. I could never-”

Jaime interrupts her. “She would have wanted you to have them.” Then he leaves her to her musings.

Cersei knows that, but how can she possibly explain what’s stopping her? He wouldn’t get it. He doesn’t know what it was like, for her, to measure up to her mother every day in his father’s eyes. Jaime’s a man, he’s had it all handed to him. For Cersei to wear Joanna’s clothes would be to feel a sheep in a lion’s clothing. And she doesn’t like to feel like a sheep. Finally alone, she has a chance to think. It’s dangerous to be alone with her thoughts, that’s usually when the mess gets worse.

In the bathroom, she gets undressed and enters the shower. The water takes a few seconds to warm up; she remains under the jet for more than she should. Eyes snapped shut, she gets rid of the exhaustion of the day. She pops the shower gel bottle open and her nostrils are filled with a smell she recognizes: Jaime. It reminds her of a time, when they were children, when she would do anything to look like her brother, including wear his clothes and his cologne. It has a different meaning now; to smell of him is not to be him, it is to be _with_ him.

She uses it all the same.

Minutes later she’s standing in the bedroom, staring at the same closet as before. Fat droplets fall from her wet hair, into the towel wrapped around her body. By all means, she should just pick something and wear it and stop being fussy about it. It’s not the end of the world. With a sigh, she sits on the edge of the bed, hands in her lap, waiting for… a sign, anything.

A knock. She pulls the towel tighter around her, as Jaime opens the door. He waits on the threshold, when he sees her state of undress. “Do you want me to- ”

“No, it’s fine.”

Jaime plops down on the bed next to her. He passes her an oversize white shirt, one of his. “I figured you wouldn’t change your mind.” It’s been five years, Cersei thinks, but still no one knows her better than her brother. She should be grateful, truly. She accepts the shirt with a small smile, murmurs a _thank you_.

And then, she feels the light touch of his lips on her bare shoulders, licking off yet another rogue droplet, just before it could disappear into her towel. She stares ahead, avoids the look he knows he must be giving her right now, waiting for a sign, waiting for permission. So he kisses her again, light as a butterfly, only an inch closer to her neck still wet. “Cersei,” he whispers into her skin.

“Just sign those papers, Jaime,” she says, keeping her eyes on the open closet.

Jaime sighs, places his forehead against her shoulder. She can feel his disappointment. And his rage is not unexpected. He grabs her chin, forces her to look back at him. “I signed the bloody papers this morning, while you were in the bathroom.” Then he stands up, angrily. “Grab them and go.” He slams the door shut behind him, she flinches at the loud noise.

She dries herself off, eyes the white t-shirt Jaime has offered. Then stands in naked glory before the closet.

* * *

 

It’s her arrogance that fucks with him. How irritatingly sure she was that he would give her what she wanted. And worse, how stupid he was, that he would do exactly just that. He signed those papers without questioning it, not because he didn’t want the company, eventually, but because he knew she deserved it more than he did. Did she ever stop to think about what he wanted? No, not Cersei. That just wasn’t her.

He’s turned off all the lights; on the couch, it’s like la Ville Lumière is mocking him across the glass wall. He is drinking whisky, which he hates, just because he figured it would look cool if she ever gets out of her room. Which she hasn’t done in over three hours. It’s almost midnight now: she can’t avoid him forever. The papers she wants so much are on the small coffee table, just where he’s propped up his feet. He’s brooding, he knows, in a dark room. That isn’t cool, that’s just pathetic.

Sometime around 10 p.m. he’s tried to eavesdrop through the door. She was whispering, a phone call probably. Was she talking to her children? His guts has churned. _Her lover?_ He finishes the last of the whisky, and puts it down angrily. He’s just about to give up and call it a night, when he hears the low squeaking of her bedroom door. And when she appears, he wonders if he’s dreaming.

Eventually, she’s worn one of Joanna’s nightgowns. A golden, silk gown that reaches just above the knee, and a robe hanging open, same colour, same fabric. He can imagine every bit of her body underneath: her hipbones, the curve of her breasts, her nipples perked up through the fabric. He feels his cock stirring, but won’t give her the satisfaction to voice his thoughts. She doesn’t even spare him a look; instead she heads straight to the mantelpiece, picks up a silver vase; inside, she finds cigarettes and a lighter. She doesn’t even ask: Jaime hears the click and sees the flame, then the tip glowing amber-like in the darkness.

“You still smoke?” Cersei asks. He shakes his head no. “So you’ve given up all of your bad habits, haven’t you?” she presses on.

There’s a meaning behind that. All in all, it’s the more weirdly direct she’s been throughout her whole stay. “Only what was killing me.”

She walks to the window, cracks it open, then takes another drag, keeps the smoke in a while longer than she would need to. In the night, he can make out the sizzle coming from the tip of her cigarette. It’s been years since he last craved nicotine; he craves it now. He craves everything about her, it’s overcoming his senses. The whisky has made him angry, has made him bold.

He stands up, doesn’t carry the half-empty glass with him. Cersei eyes him carefully. A cloud of smoke leaving her lips, those fucking beautiful lips, those lips that would look so much more beautiful wrapped around his shaft than the filter of that cigarette. He leans against the glass wall, Paris is a carpet of lights underneath them, and Cersei’s eyes sparkle like golden emeralds. She’s still watching him, her cigarette halfway through.

“What do you want, Jaime?”

_To fuck you_.

He winces, he can’t say that surely. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” That’s a good starting point. “But I need to know that you didn’t come here, after five years without a single phone call, just because you want me to sign those bloody documents.” The cigarette dangles between her fingers, he takes it from her and brings it to his lips. The taste of nicotine mixed with whisky is strange and familiar at once.

“You left, Jaime.”

“You cheated.”

Ah. There it is, the truth at last. His mind races back to a rainy night, back in London, one of many, uneventful. A night that by all means should not have stood out, in the midst of the terrible winter they were having. Five years gone by, but Jaime remembers it clearly. Entering his father’s office late at night to recover something Tyrion had sent him to fetch, finding Cersei with her tits out and legs spread for someone who was not him. The rage, the blood: the mess he’d made of Kettleblack’s face as he beat him to a pulp, Cersei screaming, begging him to stop, Tyrion disposing of the body.

If he looks at his knuckles now, he can still see it. Leaving was better than staying, because by the time he was done with Kettleblack’s face he’d turned to Cersei and seen red once more, and if Tyrion had not arrived in time to shake him out of his trance, perhaps he would have… He doesn’t know what he would have done.

“I did what I had to do. They were going to leverage me out,” she begins, voice trembling with something that is not fear. It’s anger, pure and unbridled. “With Father in the hospital… After marrying me off to Robert, after all I had to suffer to get there, they were going to take it away from me. I needed someone on my side. And you weren’t there. You, and your stupid, selfish, arrogant idea of not speaking to dad.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?” Fighting is better than pretending everything is fine. Fighting is better than pretending his sister is just that, his _sister_. She has never been just that. “Could have warned me though. Next time you feel like giving it up for free I’ll grab a bloody ticket-”

The slap hits like a ton of bricks. It isn’t just the sting on his cheek, it’s the scars inside that hurt the most. He plays it off with a bitter laugh, massaging his jaw. Then he snaps: he reaches for the side of her neck, sharply, pulls her closer. The cigarette falls to the ground, and he steps on it, putting it out. Her hand shots up, wrapping itself around his wrist, fingernails digging in and tearing at the skin she finds there. Jaime uses his free hand to maneuver her closer, holding her by the waist, fingertips digging at the small of her back. She struggles briefly, then concedes. Her chest rises and falls in time with her breathing which, in time, synchs with his. He wishes he could hear her heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, green diving into green. She tries to wriggle free, but he keeps her there, taut to him. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, because she needs to hear it, no matter how much she doesn’t want to. He knows it’s easier to be furious; his sister has always been quick tempered. And now, she tries once more, attempts to wrestle herself free of his grasp, but fails. Her resolve is waning. “I’m sorry,” he says once more, the third time.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

It’s Cersei who kisses him first. Her mouth is vicious on his, teeth pulling at his lips. He pushes her into the glass wall: if they were to fall into nothingness now, it would mean nothing, because she’s moaning into his mouth, pulling at the buttons of his shirt to get rid of it, unbuckling his leather belt. The silk of his mother’s nightgown is all balled up in his fists now, as he pulls it up to free her legs and touch her like he hasn’t touched her in five years: he drops to his knees, not because he wants to but because it’s the only thing he knows how to do when it comes to her. He kisses her thighs, her lower belly, finds the soft white cotton panties and kisses her there as well, hearing her sigh. He’s missed this. He’s missed the catalogue of sounds he could elicit from her. He wants to remember all of them now.

Is that Joanna’s underwear? He shouldn’t think about that. But then again, he is about to fuck his sister, who’s wearing their mother’s silk.

He discards the panties, opens her folds to him and gets reacquainted with the taste of her. With a leg over his shoulder, she’s doing all she can to keep standing. Her knees are shaking, he can’t hold her there forever.

_Just a while longer_.

* * *

 

Her whole body is on fire, her whole skin lights up from within. The contrast with the cold glass behind her is the only thing keeping her grounded, else she would lose herself already. His hair is shorter now, she can barely grab a fistful of it when he sucks on her most sensitive spot. She misses it, he should grow it back. _It will grow back_. Her own ears are filled with her own voice, the sounds she’s making, filling the room and the air around them. She can smell herself, as well. And the more time he spends between her legs, the more her soul reaches boiling temperature. Every part of her is singing, welcoming him home.

He travels up her body before she has a chance to reach completion. He’s fumbling with his pants, she reads his face and knows he’s too lost inside of her now. She has seen those eyes before. She pushes the white cotton shirt over his shoulders, lets it fall onto the hardwood floor. She kisses the muscle she finds there, inhales the scent of him briefly before taking matters into her own hands and sliding the thin straps over her shoulders. The nightgown bunches up at her waist. He halts, swallows, pants down around his knees. He breathes deeply, takes in the scenery he’s witnessed so many times but has never grown tired of. He devours her every time he looks at her.

Jaime’s trousers and Cersei’s nightgown hit the ground almost with the same beat. Now they are naked, and the urgency has been replaced by hesitancy. How do naked gods approach each other? Calmly, slowly, divine. She runs her hands up and down his chest, he holds her hands in his and kisses her palms. He tugs at her, walking backwards until the back of his calves hits the couch. She doesn’t dare look away. He sits down, she straddles him. It doesn’t take much more than the fraction of a second. She gasps when she feels him inside her, stretching her inner walls. He doesn’t move at all, lets her have all the power. Steadying herself by holding onto his knees, she begins to move her pelvis back and forth, slowly. But she doesn’t last.

Her body is not her own, has never been, But whenever Jaime was with her, she was always glad to relinquish it. So she fastens the pace, until she can’t take it any longer. It’s not enough. “Jaime,” she whispers in his ear. She doesn’t have to say much more. He’s already rolled them over, pressing her into the cushions with his whole weight. He kisses her, perfectly still inside her, and then he thrusts once, twice, and more, and faster and harder.

She remembers them all. The times they were together. In her mind, they are small globes on a shelf, each with its own label. She remembers when, where, how. She remembers why, too. Whether it was because she wanted to scorn Robert, or because she felt sad, or because she felt victorious. All of them, precious small gems to adorn the crown of her life. What would she be without him?

_Less vulnerable._

Unexpected, sudden, violent: she writhes beneath him, allowing herself to lull his name between her lips as she tenses up and lets go.

* * *

 

The warm, prickling feeling forces his eyes open. The sun wakes him up, entering his own apartment with its harsh reveal.

The room is empty. He sits up, startled. “Cersei?” he calls out, but the whole place refuses to give him answers. Then he notices it: the whole folder, Cersei’s precious documents, is still on the coffee table. Or well, at least what remains of it: only half of it, torn.

He’s confused, but will be damned if he lets her run away without as much as an explanation. His digits are fast on his phone: naked as a god, he walks around the dining room, waiting for her to pick up. When she does, he doesn’t let her speak.

“What does this mean?” he asks, and knows she doesn’t need him to specify what he is talking about.

“It means we do this together.”

“Do what together?”

“Live,” she offers.

“Cersei, where are you?”

“I’m in a cab, my flight leaves from Charles De Gaulle in an hour.” He feels a rush of adrenaline surge through him. “I’m offering you 50/50. We split the company. Lead together. Come back, Jaime. I’m not whole without you.”

He watches Paris, a glorious dame dressed with her best summer dress. The phone is light in his hand.

_The things I do for love._


End file.
